Good Girl Gone
Page 20
“I know,” he says, holding up a hand when my mouth opens to rush on. “Thank you for the water.”
“Are you ready to go to bed?” I rake my fingers through my hair, dragging them down my scalp. I’m still disconcerted by the dream. But Josh is here. Josh makes it better.
“Sure.” He nods his head at me and shifts to his wheelchair.
He follows me into the bedroom. I’ve had this on my mind since this morning, so I just blurt it out. “So, do you want to…do it? Tonight?”
His brow arches. “Do it?”
“Have sex? Make love?” I snort uncontrollably when I say the last one, and then I cover my mouth in embarrassment.
“Um…” He looks everywhere in the room but at me.
“What?” I ask, punching my hands into my hips. “What’s that look for?” Does he seriously find the idea of fucking me that terrible?
“What look?” He goes to the bathroom really quickly and I can hear him brushing his teeth.
I yell at him from the bedroom. “That look you had. Like you would rather eat liver than have sex with me.”
He comes out and grins. “I like liver.”
“So can we?” I ask again. “I’d like to get it over with.”
His face hardens. “No.” He pauses a beat. “Thank you for the offer, though. It’s flattering.”
I stumble to a stop. “Flattering.”
“Well, yeah,” he says. He swipes a hand down his face in frustration. “When a beautiful woman puts pussy in a man’s face, it’s flattering.” He shrugs. “Very flattering,” he mutters.
“But you don’t want to.” I’m so confused.
He transfers to the bed and pats the space beside him.
“No thank you,” I tell him.
He cocks his head to the side. “Why not?”
“Because you don’t want to do that with me,” I say quietly. I draw air quotes around do that. “I get it. I do.” I mutter to myself, “Damaged goods. I get it.”
“You were afraid when you woke up on the couch just now.” He’s not asking a question. He’s telling me he knows that’s how I felt.
“I was not,” I protest.
“You were crying.”
“It was just a dream.” Damn it. Why can’t he leave it alone?
“Do you know what I dream about?” His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him.
I don’t answer. Instead, I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. Then I take my time taking my makeup off.
When I walk back into the bedroom, he holds up the covers and pats the space beside him. I reluctantly get in the bed, trying to keep a space between him and me. He turns off the light on the bedside table, draping the room in darkness.
But he rolls onto his side and hooks his hand around my hip, pulling me against him. “Do you know what I dream about?” he asks, his lips so close to my ear that I can feel his words.
“What?” I whisper. I turn my head and look toward where I know he is.
“I dream about getting stinking drunk. In my dream, I keep telling my drunk self not to do it. Don’t get behind the wheel. Don’t drive. I tell myself over and over. But I don’t listen. I do it anyway. Then I see the glass breaking and the car flipping and I hear the screams of the other people in the car as it goes end over end. Then I’m stuck there, lying in the ditch in the rain, and I’m not able to move my legs. I can’t get up and go help her. I can’t do a damn thing to help her, because I’m immobile.” He clears his throat. “Then I wake up from my dream, and I find that it’s reality. I still can’t move my legs. I don’t know why I’m always surprised by that, but it still gets me every time. In my dream I was walking, and driving, and it felt so real. But it’ll never be real again.”
He unhooks his hand from around my hip and rolls onto his back. He places his palms under his neck and stares up at the ceiling.
“Is that how you lost the use of your legs?”
“More or less.”
“What happened to the other people in the car?”
He jerks his head toward me. I can see it in the dark. “Why did you wake up crying, huh?” he bites out. “Why were you scared?”
“I…I just was. I don’t know.” I start to fidget because I’m lying, and he’s fully aware of it. But I can’t stop. I don’t talk about it. Ever. If I don’t talk about it, it will never have to be real.
He lifts my hand and presses it to his cheek, right where his teardrop tattoo is. “Two people died. One didn’t. But I wish she had, every fucking day, and so does she. I wished I’d died too. I wished it hard for a really long time.”
“Do you still wish it?” I whisper.
“Not right this second.” He lifts his arm and nudges for me to scoot into my spot. I don’t. I just lie there with my chin propped in my hand and stare at him. “C’mon,” he coaxes. “You know you want to.”
I scoot forward until I find my spot and I snuggle into it.
“Can I tell you something?” he says. He jostles his shoulder so that my head bounces.
“Yes,” I say, my lips near his collarbone, almost touching him but not quite.
“I’m afraid that if you keep offering me pussy on a silver platter, one day I’ll be weak enough to take you up on it.” His fingertips start a slow drag up and down my arm.
“Are you ready to go to bed?” I rake my fingers through my hair, dragging them down my scalp. I’m still disconcerted by the dream. But Josh is here. Josh makes it better.
“Sure.” He nods his head at me and shifts to his wheelchair.
He follows me into the bedroom. I’ve had this on my mind since this morning, so I just blurt it out. “So, do you want to…do it? Tonight?”
His brow arches. “Do it?”
“Have sex? Make love?” I snort uncontrollably when I say the last one, and then I cover my mouth in embarrassment.
“Um…” He looks everywhere in the room but at me.
“What?” I ask, punching my hands into my hips. “What’s that look for?” Does he seriously find the idea of fucking me that terrible?
“What look?” He goes to the bathroom really quickly and I can hear him brushing his teeth.
I yell at him from the bedroom. “That look you had. Like you would rather eat liver than have sex with me.”
He comes out and grins. “I like liver.”
“So can we?” I ask again. “I’d like to get it over with.”
His face hardens. “No.” He pauses a beat. “Thank you for the offer, though. It’s flattering.”
I stumble to a stop. “Flattering.”
“Well, yeah,” he says. He swipes a hand down his face in frustration. “When a beautiful woman puts pussy in a man’s face, it’s flattering.” He shrugs. “Very flattering,” he mutters.
“But you don’t want to.” I’m so confused.
He transfers to the bed and pats the space beside him.
“No thank you,” I tell him.
He cocks his head to the side. “Why not?”
“Because you don’t want to do that with me,” I say quietly. I draw air quotes around do that. “I get it. I do.” I mutter to myself, “Damaged goods. I get it.”
“You were afraid when you woke up on the couch just now.” He’s not asking a question. He’s telling me he knows that’s how I felt.
“I was not,” I protest.
“You were crying.”
“It was just a dream.” Damn it. Why can’t he leave it alone?
“Do you know what I dream about?” His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him.
I don’t answer. Instead, I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. Then I take my time taking my makeup off.
When I walk back into the bedroom, he holds up the covers and pats the space beside him. I reluctantly get in the bed, trying to keep a space between him and me. He turns off the light on the bedside table, draping the room in darkness.
But he rolls onto his side and hooks his hand around my hip, pulling me against him. “Do you know what I dream about?” he asks, his lips so close to my ear that I can feel his words.
“What?” I whisper. I turn my head and look toward where I know he is.
“I dream about getting stinking drunk. In my dream, I keep telling my drunk self not to do it. Don’t get behind the wheel. Don’t drive. I tell myself over and over. But I don’t listen. I do it anyway. Then I see the glass breaking and the car flipping and I hear the screams of the other people in the car as it goes end over end. Then I’m stuck there, lying in the ditch in the rain, and I’m not able to move my legs. I can’t get up and go help her. I can’t do a damn thing to help her, because I’m immobile.” He clears his throat. “Then I wake up from my dream, and I find that it’s reality. I still can’t move my legs. I don’t know why I’m always surprised by that, but it still gets me every time. In my dream I was walking, and driving, and it felt so real. But it’ll never be real again.”
He unhooks his hand from around my hip and rolls onto his back. He places his palms under his neck and stares up at the ceiling.
“Is that how you lost the use of your legs?”
“More or less.”
“What happened to the other people in the car?”
He jerks his head toward me. I can see it in the dark. “Why did you wake up crying, huh?” he bites out. “Why were you scared?”
“I…I just was. I don’t know.” I start to fidget because I’m lying, and he’s fully aware of it. But I can’t stop. I don’t talk about it. Ever. If I don’t talk about it, it will never have to be real.
He lifts my hand and presses it to his cheek, right where his teardrop tattoo is. “Two people died. One didn’t. But I wish she had, every fucking day, and so does she. I wished I’d died too. I wished it hard for a really long time.”
“Do you still wish it?” I whisper.
“Not right this second.” He lifts his arm and nudges for me to scoot into my spot. I don’t. I just lie there with my chin propped in my hand and stare at him. “C’mon,” he coaxes. “You know you want to.”
I scoot forward until I find my spot and I snuggle into it.
“Can I tell you something?” he says. He jostles his shoulder so that my head bounces.
“Yes,” I say, my lips near his collarbone, almost touching him but not quite.
“I’m afraid that if you keep offering me pussy on a silver platter, one day I’ll be weak enough to take you up on it.” His fingertips start a slow drag up and down my arm.
